Days of Seamless Sound

Poem of the Day:
"Of all the Sounds despatched abroad" by Emily Dickinson
Final Harvest


Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs--
That phraseless Melody --
The Wind does -- working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky --
Then quiver down -- with tufts of Tune --
Permitted Gods, and me --



My days are quilts of seamless sound: guitar-playing on the street, subway travel, typing, the yell of bus brakes. Dickinson writes of a more natural symphony, one conducted by the wind and played by the "Birds...overhead" (line 23) and the "merry Dust" (line 18) of risen souls. Each of these musicians sings beautifully, harmonizing "In Seamless Company" (line 34).

I thought I would dislike city life, that coming from a fairly rural (definitely suburban) lifestyle would make me ill-prepared to live in a place where people cram into small cars and are hurled to their jobs. But, there is a melody to be found in the urban setting. I can now sense when a bus is near by the shrill call of its rev, and I like this. I like being able to do this.



I hear you Dickinson. But these sounds are good too. You have your "fleshless Chant" (line 28) and I my fleshy, steely trill.


Sincerely,
A Poem A Day Audrey